Porcelain
by dreaming.plebeian
Summary: Vernette, Irene Adler's incorrigible daughter, is abducted. With her cunning she manages to escape, and turns to the only person she thinks can help her: Sherlock Holmes.
1. Stars

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Sherlock". I wish I did, but then it probably wouldn't be as awesome.**

**Author notes: **

**Vernette: In the original Sherlock Holmes stories, the only relative of Sherlock's mentioned by name besides his brother is Horace Vernet, a French artist. Vernette is a spin-off of the name. **

**The piano piece she is playing is "Porcelain" by Helen Jane Long, which I named the story after. It's really beautiful so I suggest you check out her work.**

**I'm not opposed to other romantic affiliations of Sherlock Holmes, I just thought a child of Sherlock and Irene would be a really interesting character.**

* * *

Chapter 1

Long, ivory fingers caress piano keys. Long's "Porcelain" sheet music flutters with the unchecked breeze of the open window, and Vernette's eyes flit in annoyance at the disruption. The euphonious notes falter.

"Ah!" she grimaces. "Mom? Can you come here? I need you to close the window."

A strong, vivacious voice answers, "You can't shut it yourself?'

"I could," Vernette explains, even more aggravated at the now drawn-out process, "but then I'd lose my concentration. It was perfect before!"

The delicate footsteps trail to the window, rusty hinges groaning. "Not quite, darling. You play too hard—"

"This, from _my_ mother," Vernette gasps, eyebrows raised in barely restrained bitterness.

"Ha ha, you got me there. Your talent is unrivalled, but your skill—" she leans over Vernette, tapping repeatedly on a single key, "needs some work."

Vernette sighs, exasperated. Her mother offers a thrilling smile, blue eyes whispering encouragement. Vernette flexes her fingers. Tentatively, she places them on the keys again, the crescendo resuming in less audible force as she applies her mother's correction.

* * *

Irene sits next to her daughter, close but not touching. She never felt entirely comfortable with Vernette, her own child. Perhaps the aura of _don't touch me _radiating off the girl reminded her too much of someone she once knew, and at fifteen years of age, they were far too distant now to commence a physically intimate relationship. Irene never thought she'd hesitate to place hands on anybody- given her profession- but with her daughter…Irene turns into someone else. Vernette huddles with her chin on her knees, seemingly absorbed in the evening news, dissecting it with her limpid, brown eyes. Storing the information in her mind for later.

Irene stifles her shock as _he _assumes the screen, a chill demeanor and utter boredom etched on his familiar face. Doctor Watson, with hair noticeably grayer, stands at his side. Irene doesn't dare analyze _him, _how _he's_ changed.

Irene's eyes flicker to Vernette's, registering her intent curiosity with something akin to fright. She thought this station was safe. Local news, perhaps some drabble about a politician's affairs, but within the bounds of the country. Not global, never global. Vernette shifts, her hands under her chin. "Brilliant" she mutters, giving appreciative grunts as _he_ expounds on his cleverness, his ingenuity in solving a case involving the Prime Minister.

"Who _is _that man?" Vernette breathes, fascination dripping from her very pores.

Irene responds edgily. "That, dear, is Sherlock Holmes."

"Who?"

"'The world's only consulting detective.'"

"Aha…you know what, Mom? He reminds me of you, but God! He talks so fast. He's obviously a genius," darting a mischievous smile in Irene's direction, she asks, "I wonder if he's as smart as you? Anyhow I'm sure we both could take him. A showdown between the two of you would be entertaining."

Irene doesn't even bother to comment on that.

Vernette subsides into contemplative silence, until Irene hurriedly inquires about her experiments with genetics. Cursing herself for her obvious nerves, she hardly pays attention as her daughter plunges into a soliloquy about the guinea pigs she breeds, and the Punett squares she's currently refining.

Meditatively, with a tragic feeling blossoming in her chest, Irene surveys her daughter's face. The big brown eyes and aloof, sloping nose from Irene were the only aspects of her features alien to Sherlock's. Her tilted lips, sharp cheekbones, and high forehead are telltale hints. Even the ebony curls haloing her ears are dead giveaways. As Vernette stands up to get tea, Irene takes in her height and figure; rather tall, lean, and not as seductive as her mother's. Even the slight mannerisms, the "praying hands" and rapidity of voice, the frustration at making a mistake, are so reminiscent of him as to have given her pain in the early years. If more of Sherlock dares to circulate, if Vernette's interest grows and she researches him, Irene knows she'll make the inevitable connection. And Irene will hesitate at nothing to prevent that.

* * *

Tiptoeing stealthily into an occupied room was never a challenge for Irene Adler. She had always excelled in remaining unseen when she preferred to be invisible, and in her later years it is no exception. She peers into the darkened room of her daughter. The hall light illuminates the hard angles of the bookshelves and casts a shimmer on Vernette's curls. With regulated breaths Irene steals in and swiftly snatches her daughter's laptop, taking note of a book leaning precariously on top of it. With the agility of a cat she disappears into her own bedroom.

She easily installs a block for the keyword "Sherlock Holmes" and various others affiliated with him. With a few intricate maneuvers she ensures that Vernette will never know what happened. Biting her tongue between ruby lips, she furrows her brow in concentration. _Here comes the tricky part. _Hacking into John's blog is simple enough, given his interests and occupation. She deletes her name in his posts "The Woman", "By Royal Appointment", "Christmas", and "Happy New Year" and invents a reasonable stand-in. If, somehow, Vernette were to get past Irene's tedious defenses, she never need know that her mother and Sherlock Holmes ever met. That her mother and Sherlock Holmes have a history.

* * *

Regulating her breathing is difficult given the state of wonder she's currently in. Why would her mother steal her laptop? It makes no sense.

_Maybe she just needs it for something. _Ha. That's a logical conclusion. Why look up something on your amazing cellphone when you can use your daughter's computer in the middle of the night? Knowing that the coast is clear, Vernette rolls over and examines the cracks lacing her ceiling, then out the window to the ivory latticework of birches in moonlight. Simmering with boredom, Vernette clambers out of the window and shimmies down the tree, bare feet clinging to the bark. Maybe Irene will notice her annoyance when she sneaks in to return the laptop.

Vernette doesn't worry that her mother will greet an empty bed in the morning. The occurrence is common. Ever since she was a little girl, Vernette would leave during the night, first wandering the garden then graduating to the sleepy town. Irene never addressed her odd behavior. Vernette never wondered why.

Until now, it seemed routine. But an awakening stirs in the back of her mind, and Vernette realizes that Irene is a terrible mother by normal standards. _Neither of us are exactly ordinary though. _While meandering through sleek roads, the pavement haggard by the feeble light of the few streetlamps, Vernette gives up puzzling out the dynamic between mother and daughter; it just doesn't apply to them. Suddenly it seems a tragic loss.


	2. Lost WInd

Chapter 2

**Author Notes: This chapter features a famous character in Sherlock Holmes lore, one who hasn't been introduced in the Sherlock TV series yet. I played with his character a little bit. I promise he's not as boring as he seems in this chapter! Please review; I want to know how I'm doing so far.**

**P.S. Every subsequent chapter is named after a song of Long's album _Porcelain._**

Cautious as she is, Vernette enters the airy kitchen with eyes trained on her. She decides to dress simply, burrowing without permission in the wardrobe. Her unfastened hair pools down her back in sleek ringlets. This man (so it was) knows her clothing size. The knowledge frightens her.

Vernette flashes an Irene smile, giving a calculated look designed to make him at his ease. With studious grace she slides into an empty stool, placing her elbows on the marble counter with hands underneath her elfin chin.

"Morning. Did you fix me breakfast? I have to admit I'm starving."

"A natural statement, that, saying as you haven't had a meal in two days."

She can't stop a sharp gasp. Two days, and her mother hasn't found her yet? _Irene, you're off your game. _Vernette plucks an apple from the overflowing fruit bowl, all the while discreetly darting her eyes over every crevice. Stainless steel appliances. Cupboard door ajar with assorted boxes peeking out, implying overabundance of food, so this is not a temporary residence. Why bring her here?

"So…" she murmurs, finally looking into his crumpled eyes and willing every truth to emerge there, "I'm assuming this is a vendetta against my mother? I'm not here for ransom. Why should I be: you're already rich. And this isn't some random I'm-gonna-take-a-little-girl-out-of-her-home scheme. It took quite a bit of intelligence to procure me. And of course this has nothing to do with me at all. If you wanted me dead, I'd already be cold. I'm a pawn you're using against my mother. That's the only possible explanation." Vernette dimples her chin, anticipating a negative, but when none comes she smirks with the knowledge that she's right, at least partially.

He saunters toward a sliding door and opens it, a sharp whistle crackling through the dense forest cradling the mansion. A sleek dog bounds into the kitchen. Vernette grunts in distaste. Nothing is special about the dog, other than perhaps a glint of sentiment in her captor.

The man straightens, revealing khakis and a simple, blue button down shirt. His face under the close-clipped beard is overtly mischievous, with something more than average wit gleaming from the dark eyes. His sparse hair, speckled with gray, strings down to his shoulders where he has some, but other than that there's nothing remotely identifying about his appearance.

"You are everything we've been told you would be. Excepting that this is not concerning Irene at all. Oh, Irene…" he pours a steaming cup of coffee, "always the charmer. How is your dear mother?"

"Not very well, sorry," she gets out. "I think she's had a fright."

Vernette looks down at her apple. Her throat feels thick, suffocating her. She puts it back in the bowl.

"That's too bad. Anyway, we haven't had proper introductions. I'm Sebastian, associate of the late Jim Moriarty. I'm here to finish what he started."

"Moriarty? I've never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised. That was when you were just a baby, after all. My, weren't you cute!"

_Oh my God. _Vernette shrunk in her chair. _He's been watching me all these years? Who is he?_

"So how do I, this guy Moriarty, and my mother have to do with each other?"

"I told you this isn't about Irene,"

"Well it isn't about me!" she savagely cuts in. With a severe mental effort she constrains her rising frustration. "What do I have to do with it?"

"This, this is very complicated. It started before you were born, and I am sorry to have dragged you into it. It's not your fault. Yet this is how the cookie crumbled, you know? You take what you get. Anyway, Moriarty had this obsession with your dad—"

"My dad?"

"Can you quit interrupting! Yes, your father. Your mother worked for Moriarty, until she failed him. She had to run then. Your father didn't know nearly as much about Jim as Jim knew about your father. Moriarty died. Then your father did, or so we thought. Now we're trying to draw your father out, and we'll use you to do it."

"My father doesn't know I exist, and he obviously didn't care about my mother since they've never talked or anything since, well, since forever. If he does know about me, any leverage you think you have against him is nonexistent. Why would he do anything to protect two women he doesn't have the least interest in?"

Sebastian strokes the dog's ruddy fur. While appearing to ignore her, Vernette knows he's considering everything she's said; it maddens her that he makes no reply. She feels traces of tears welling in her eyes, and wills them painfully back inside her head, leaving her face hot and clammy. She hopes he won't notice.

A hint of silver glistens in the sink: a spoon. Vernette sidles away from Sebastian, her heart feeling like it's entangling her chest. Vernette never thought of herself as a potential murderer. Now, however, she accepts what she's about to do—

A smooth mask of apathy slides into place as Sebastian whips around. Her fingers wrestle the spoon into her back pocket. With measured nonchalance she folds her shirt over her bulging jeans, emitting a shaky breath as mingled thoughts struggle against each other: _Can I really kill him? I don't want to be that person, I don't want to become heartless…soulless. Maybe there's another way. God, there has to be another way. What would Mom do? _Vernette discreetly exits, deciding to bide her time.

* * *

Vernette fingers every crevice, every speck of her bedroom, doggedly determined to find an escape. The windows are, predictably, nailed shut. No amount of analysis reveals any possible way to leave. Desperately she presses a nail down, not really expecting the window to spring open, and with a rueful smile she flecks dust off the windowpane.

Even if the window miraculously opens, there's nothing Vernette can grab to safely descend. A pipe to the roof juts out above, and if she can make a ladder…but no, there are no materials useful for that purpose. Sebastian only provided her with one pair of clothes. Utterly exhausted, she leans against the armoire.

Vernette disinterestedly opens the top drawer, revealing a cache of expensive jewelry. Pearl necklaces, thick, silver chained bracelets and rings, emeralds glinting in the recesses.

_Oh my God. _Vernette sinks slowly to the ground with a necklace entangled in her hand. She laughs weakly, pressing it to her cheek, tears streaming down her face and splattering the carpet. The laugh grows stronger, assured, triumphant. She has her answer.

* * *

Vernette's clever fingers, riddled with dents, drop pearls of blood from the inner corners. Hidden in the closet, she hastily strings together the myriad of ornaments. A vivid recollection flashes into her mind: _Irene, red nails darting between rings of pale green and red paper on Christmas, tape between her vibrant lips. Vernette, a chubby child with clusters of curls framing her cheeks, cuts the paper in jagged ribbons_. She sighs. She had never missed her mother so much, not even during the drawling weeks of absence. _I always knew I'd see her again. Now I have no guarantee. _

Finally the work is done. A lump of metal, diamonds and gold tumbles over Vernette's lap. Every chain is formed three necklaces strong, in case one or two snap. Even now she doesn't believe it can hold her weight. _I have to try. _Vernette takes the chiseled spoon handle and twists the screws from the window. Heaving, she bursts it open, taking a second to breathe in the noxious London air curiously mixed with country pine. Now is the hard part. She flings the rope toward the pipe. First attempt: utter failure. She winces as it clatters against the side of the house. After many more unsuccessful attempts and cold sweat, the loop catches. She tugs it once. Secure.

Straddling the window frame, she mutters a silent prayer to the powers that be for her preservation. Maneuvering her body, she inches down the side of the house in miniscule leaps, tentatively looking up at the pipe. It groans slightly. She shivers. Finally she jumps, and soft mud squelches under her sneakers. Vernette resists the urge to vomit. With a sudden desire for vengeance she tears the chain and clenches as many necklaces as possible.

A sharp gasp echoes behind her. Vernette swivels slowly, terrified. A gardener, with slack jaw, pops his weathered eyes nearly out of his head. Vernette doesn't hesitate. She sprints frantically toward a break in the trees, tears flying, mingling with her streaming hair.


	3. Expression

**Author's Note: More canonical characters are introduced! Yay! I think I did alright with everyone but Sherlock. Herm, I'll attribute it to the shock he had, and try harder next time. I hope you guys appreciate the research that went into this (You better! No, not really), it was no easy task. Again, please review!**

**Chapter 3**

She didn't stop until she hit the city. The labyrinth of buildings provided sufficient camouflage, she knew, but her terror didn't cease until she ducked into a dingy pawn shop, came out with a fistful of hundreds and scrambled into a taxi.

At the pawn shop she managed to peek at a grimy newspaper. Snatching it up, she scanned a story about Sherlock Holmes, a deer stalker shading his pale features.

"Oh, that's vintage. Sixteen, seventeen years ago I'd say. That's when he really started to get big. I'm lucky I saved it; soon it'll be worth a fortune. He's all anyone ever talks about."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You want it? Fifty I'd say, a bargain considering—"

"No thanks." And with that she hailed the cab.

Now she knows exactly where she's going.

"221 Baker Street, please," she breathes.

London would be a diversion to her if her nerves weren't so rattled. The damp stonework glistens in the filtered sunlight, sparkling ivy crawling up ancient buildings. New ones, too, sprout up here and there, squished between them, gaudy headings squealing under the plethora of fluorescent lights. In truth, Vernette knows next to nothing about the layout of London; nevertheless, she cranes her neck to possibly glimpse the Big Ben between thick, verdant boughs.

The cab halts, and she hesitates a little before stepping out. She has trouble distinguishing it. Was it part of Speedy's, or…what? She knocks tentatively, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Licking her lips, she furtively wipes her hands on her shirt. Finally an elderly woman with kind eyes opens the door.

"Hello dearie, is there something you need?"

"Um, yes, I'm looking for Mister Sherlock Holmes?"

She hesitates. "You're a little young to be one of his clients. Are you a fan? Because, not to be ru—"

"No. I'm not a fan of his; I mean, I don't even know him. I have a case."

The woman beams sympathetically, then ushers her in. Vernette sighs as the warm hands gently grasp her shoulders.

"Dearie, you look cold as death. A cup of tea?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

The woman gestures up the narrow staircase. "He's up there."

* * *

Sherlock has seen many odd things in his life, though nothing of this magnitude. Some would propose that hallucinations of a huge, snarling hound would top that list, but he knew this is an absolutely undeniable conclusion.

The sight of a sodden girl, in muddy blue jeans, is not uncommon in London scenery. What is uncommon is said girl, with exquisite, intelligent eyes and a thick wad of cash in her fragile hands, deliberately pronouncing that she's been kidnapped and has just recently escaped.

Her even voice is marred by shrill fissures. He deduces that her story is true. Her jeans are dappled by sludge yet her shirt is dry, meaning that she has indeed been running very hard recently. She shakes intermittently and, along with her voice, she's certainly been frightened recently. He quells a rising admiration for this girl, her obvious cunning and control. He frowns.

"I don't know what he wants," she whispers. Mrs. Hudson appears with a steaming mug of tea.

"Mrs. Hudson, prepare 221A. We're having a guest for the night."

She shakes her head and, giving the girl her tea, departs.

"What he wants," Sherlock repeats. He settles back in his chair.

"Yes, well, it was too easy. He captured me, and he kept me for days before I woke. Then I'm able to escape? I just realized how staged that must have been. He expected it; no, he provided it."

"I didn't think you'd get that part," Sherlock murmurs.

"I'm not ordinary, Mr. Holmes. If we're going to be working together you might want to know that." She appraises him with her mesmerizing gaze. He notices her leg, swinging back and forth, back and forth…

Irene. That was it: she is just like The Woman. She resembles her very little, true, but she _is _her, embodies her. The same rich voice, lifted brow, challenging statements. Everything.

"So?" The girl smiles at him like he's succumbed to lunacy. Which might be viable at this point.

"Your name?"

"Vernette. Vernette Adler."

Sherlock thanks his lucky stars at John's clambering arrival. He saunters in, dropping various shopping bags on the table. "Sherlock, I need help with my blog, I think someone's hacked…Oh. Visitor." He waves stiffly at the girl. She suns her face with smiles.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. I've heard a lot about you. Mind taking a seat?" Sherlock snorts, amused that she's inviting the own inmate of this establishment to his own couch.

Watson settles himself, shooting Sherlock a _What the hell? Explain. _look.

Vernette continues to engage John in small talk, finally saying. "I know you're the softer one,"

"How? How do you know that?"

She looks puzzled. "The pictures. Anyway, I think you'll be more sympathetic. Mr. Holmes here looks about to send me away. Little does he realize I'm not easy to get rid of, but that's beside the point; the thing is, I need your support Dr. Watson. You must take this case. I've been kidnapped by a man named Sebastian. No surname. I was gone for two days. My mother either has no idea I'm missing or no means of finding it out. I think she's in danger unknown to herself."

"Probably not," Sherlock interjects. He can't help but be annoyed at his ejection from the conversation.

"Sebastian intimated to me that he's watched me for years. He says he's going to use me as bait against my father, drawing him out is what he said."

She turns to Sherlock again. "You must know as well as I do that he wanted me to escape and run, go find my dad somehow, and put him in a vulnerable position. I want to find him, if at all possible. I want to find him and warn him without Sebastian knowing."

Sherlock wrinkles his brow. "Why do you want to find him?"

Her face hardens, and her eyes gleam steel. "So I can kick him in the balls and demand where he's been all these years. Then I want his help. He has to know something about Sebastian, Moriarty, and my mom—"

"Moriarty?" John gasps. Vernette raises her eyebrows at him.

"Yes. You know him?"

Sherlock mentally urges John to lie. It works. "No, I don't. Just heard of him. The papers, you know."

Sherlock abruptly stands. He turns his back, seemingly surveying dingy London. "I'm sorry, I can't help you—"

"And here we go," Vernette grumbles.

"—I'm rather busy. Now that you've escaped the only mature thing for me to advise you to do is return home. I'll have the police provide the necessary arrangements. I'm sure their investigations will reveal anything of use to you. Frankly, I'd suggest you give up on finding your dad."

"You ass." She lifts her chin, tears floating, swirling in her deep eyes. "I've been through hell today, and I realized something. I thought I would never see my mom again. I could be dead. But I'm not, and I'm going to do everything in my power to remedy this situation."

She swiftly flicks a tear from her feverish cheek. "I can't do it alone. Please just help me. Don't make me beg."

"Sherlock—"

He puts a hand up to still John. Her distress makes him uncomfortable, and he knows she's close to the breaking point. He purses his lips, fuming through his nostrils, angry. He knows he doesn't have a choice.

"Fine," he bites out. "I'll look into it, but right now you really need to sleep. I don't need a whiny teenager on my hands. Have Mrs. Hudson show you the room."

* * *

Vernette doesn't resist when Mrs. Hudson offers her comfy pajamas. Or when she's seated to a sumptuous meal, practically forced into a steamy shower, and lathered with motherly titters and coos. She tears up because she's never been taken care of before. At least, not like this. And despite her buried contempt, a small inkling inside of her hungers for the attention.

It's nightfall when Vernette finally collapses into bed, finger-combing her tangled strands, burying herself under frothy covers. Blinking, it takes a while for her safety to sink in. All day she had felt nothing but impending danger and a harried need to escape it. Finally she can savor her success. Why did Mr. Holmes not want to take her case? Certainly there's something to solve, and it's immensely interesting. She's reminded of pulling weeds in her garden: beneath the surface are raveled catacombs, numerous roots intertwined, a whole network. Her case is the same. There's so much beneath the surface.

She decides not to puzzle it out right now. Before she has time to yawn, she slips into dreams.

_"I don't understand." Vernette lies, arms embraced by thick, heavy chains. The narrow room is cold, cement floor and walls glaring, their blank surfaces repelling. The voice is oddly melodious. It's male, musky, utterly enchanting. It begs her to trust him, and it's hard to struggle._

_Vernette swallows. "What?"_

_"Why you're being so stupid. Verne, dear, why?"_

_"Don't call me that," she shouts, slightly hysterical._

_A hazy silhouette approaches. "Wow, so edgy. Is it because it's your Mommy's nickname? I believe I touched a nerve."_

_A delicate face bends so close; she can feel his cool breath on her face. He has thickly lashed brown eyes, with locks of dark hair feathering his forehead. She notices his perfect, arched brows and his oddly familiar aspect. He takes his long index finger and lightly lifts her chin. _

_"Sweetheart, don't be frightened. I know you're not but it's what I'm supposed to say. Anyway, you're playing right into my hands, and even though it's convenient, it's so damn boring."_

_He grins and she hates herself for thrilling to it. She hates him for being…_likeable.

_He stands and backs away, eyes still locked onto hers. "You're just like him, you know. You think you're so clever! Ah, it's really endearing. Bye bye for now, I guess. It's not like you have anything to say worth listening to."_

_She panics as he turns around. "Wait, let me go! Don't you dare walk away from me! I'll figure it out, God damn you. I will! You'll see," she sobs, utterly deflated. "You'll see."_

She wakes in a cold sweat, blankets matted around her feet and pants crawling up her legs. She sits up, rapidly checking the alarm clock. 4:00 am.

Unwrapping herself, she runs up the stairs, not sure why. It doesn't deter her though.

"Sherlock?" She tentatively queries.

"Vernette?" Following the voice, she arrives in the dimly lighted kitchen, to behold Sherlock fully dressed, fiddling with a microscope and a suspicious looking green liquid.

"What is that?"

He glances at her. She melts under his cerulean gaze. She's reminded of her mother's eyes, which brings up the momentarily forgotten nightmare. She growls.

"Nothing extraordinary. Simply a poultice of a moss I plucked from your shoe a few hours ago."

She seats herself by him, uninvited. "Of course." Peering into the microscope, she pronounces, "_Cirriphyllum crassinervium_. Indigenous to England and Ireland, and quite common. What's special about that?"

He gestures for the microscope. "I'm not examining the _breed _of moss, Vernette. I'm examining what has ever encountered the moss: vestiges of shoe, chemicals. Currently I assess that a rabbit, chipmunk, and someone wearing Nikes has stepped on it. Traces of gardening product, too. Prodiamine, nitrogen. I'm assuming it's a Pennington product."

"Which basically tells you nothing." She frowns. "This is useless."

"No, it tells us a lot. We can find out which stores in the area sell Pennington products, look up the purchase history, see if there's been any sign of…"

"Sebastian?" she laughs derisively. "I don't think he'd show his face in a gardening supply store." Her face turns thoughtful. "His gardener might. I can describe him for you."

"Go." His eyes are squeezed shut, fingers dimpling his chin. She shakes her head. She does that too. _It must be a common trait among geniuses._

Vernette combs her memory of yesterday. "Crow's feet around the eyes. Light brown, and he had leathery, tanned skin. Age spots. And a gizzard neck. He had some grayish hair, but not much. His eyebrows were startling; they were stark white. He had a mole on the right side of his forehead."

"Mr. Holmes," she slows, reluctant. Finally her voice strengthens. "I had a nightmare."

"Mm. Do tell, was the monster a bug or a reptile?"

"It was a human," Vernette looks at her hands and, realizing they're shaking, clenches them tightly together.

He brushes a curl from his forehead while wiping the microscope. She looks at the aquiline nature of his face. It's a face that seems unused to smiling. She wonders what his smile is like: it probably blossoms slowly, grows to encroach his entire face, brightens his eyes to limpid orbs.

"What happened?' the question is pronounced in foreboding accents.

"He said I was making a mistake. Sherlock, I never make mistakes. It scared me."

"That's all?"

"Well, yeah," she explains, scared he isn't taking her seriously, "but it unsettled me more than it should. I've never seen that man before, but I must have, because dreams can't manufacture faces."

A deep silence pervades the cramped apartment, but it's not an awkward one. Their minds, at ease with each other, seem to form a kindred communion. Vernette realizes with no slight degree of bewilderment that she feels more comfortable with the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, than she does with people she's known for years. Hugging her knees, she nestles in the comfort of it.

"What's your mother like?"

She can't help but smile. "Beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world. But that in itself isn't extraordinary. She's so captivating. She is a little distant, but that's just who she is, and she shows her love in different ways. Some people would say she's a bad mom. She just doesn't think parenting is about rules. Like 'don't do this, don't do that' isn't what's important to her. She knows I'll stay out of trouble…" Vernette stops. She colors, realizing how defensive she's being even though Sherlock's pensive expression holds no hostility. "I'm sorry," she begins again. "I'm just so used to people criticizing her. It drives me crazy."

"What particularly does she do, or not do, that gives her this label?"

"Oh," Vernette airily waves a hand. "How do I explain? Like, I don't have to go to school. If I want to take a week off I'll take a week off. She's not home often so when she is she'll pull me out. We'll read together. Usually, though, we play piano. She taught me when I was little, and I'll listen to her, she'll listen to me. I wonder where she is right now," she gulps, "I wonder if she's thinking about me."

He leans in closer, hesitatingly, as if he doesn't know what to do. "A mother can't help but think of her child. From what you've told me, I deduce that she's doing everything in her power to get you back. She'll be really pleased when she finds out what you've done."

Vernette cocks her head at him, her luminous eyes wavering behind a screen of unshed tears. He forces himself to keep eye contact. He feels dangerously softened by her tender face, blossomed with youth and promise. Seething, Sherlock examines the minute lines worry and fear have etched onto her forehead, and resolves to stay up every night, stretching his mental powers, until those lines fade.


	4. Doll

**Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! It helped me get a move on in this next chapter :). More John and some Molly, because she's awesome.  
**

**Chapter 4**

Irene slams her palm against the desk. She has no choice: try to find her daughter and be tipped off to the British government, or sit tight and let the chips fall where they may. She has no intention of doing the last, but a palpable disappointment at the necessity of the first. She groans. Running her adroit fingers through her hair, every remnant of indecision dissipates, leaving only an acute desire to have Vernette. Unbidden, memories flash before her closed eyelids.

_"Mother," Vernette whimpers. Her small, rosy mouth is pulled down, dimpling her chin. The hands reach up to grasp Irene's dress._

_"Not now, sweetie. I'm going out."_

_"But Mommy, I need you."_

_Irene turns to the plump, rather dull nanny, and says, "I'll be home by ten o'clock. She should be in bed by eight; she's had a long day. And make sure she cleans her room."_

_Plastering a smile on her face, Irene turns to Vernette. Kneeling down, she fingers the midnight curls before saying, "Be good for Ms. Ross. I'll see you tomorrow. Give Mommy a kiss," but Vernette petulantly tears herself away, sobbing, while Irene icily raises herself and departs._

A tear oozes down her ivory cheek. In belated horror, Irene realizes that she never found out what was wrong. Remembering dozens of similar incidents, she is flooded with the most painful depression she has ever felt in her life. _What a terrible mother I've been_, she reproaches herself mercilessly. _What if she had been sick? What if something happened to her that night? _

Pursing her blood-red lips, Irene punches in the numbers for her flight.

* * *

John Watson thought he knew Sherlock Holmes pretty well. But never in his life did he expect to see Sherlock having an inspirational chat with a child at four a.m.

Barely breathing, he observes the two enter a lighter mood, the younger one's tinkling laugh soft in the stagnant air. He offers a satirical grin to the unknowing duo. _Bloody hell, _he gasps inside himself when Sherlock's lanky figure rises and puts the kettle on. _Since when does he make tea for anyone? If this is the new him I've got to get in on it. _

John blankly stumbles back to his bedroom. Still blinking, he punches his pillow. Sherlock had never shown as much interest in a client as he is showing now, never so much tenderness expressed to someone of short acquaintance. The palpable bond between them unnerves John, but not in a bad way. He smiles like a fool at the step toward normalcy Sherlock has made-even if its suddenness is not preceded by any warning signs.

"But why?" John frowns at the ceiling. Vernette, while obviously intelligent, is too emotionally unstable to be an object of admiration. Her witty remarks and cajoling manner would delight anyone, anyone other than Sherlock. He'd normally scorn her pleas, snicker at her playfulness, deduce her as unmercifully as a doctor prods a broken bone, and regard with chilling apathy her intimacies. So why then does he obviously enjoy and harbor affection for her? Care for her well-being?

Watching the sun burst between the London skyline, he decides to find out.

* * *

"Hey Sherlock," John spreads jam on his toast, trying not to appear like he's prodding.

"Hey John." Sherlock doesn't look up from his violin, his lucid fingers guiding the bow, and he is rewarded with sweet, warbling notes. "Is this a new pattern we're forming?"

John clears his throat. "I just was wondering: do you know Vernette? Like, from, I don't know—"

"Please save your blathering, John, it isn't a very good representation of your mental powers. Of course I don't know the girl. If I did, she'd know me, and not introduce herself as a stranger. Have you eaten something that disagrees with you?"

Most people would be offended by this candid speech, but John just breathes slowly through his nostrils, shaking his head.

"Answering with a question means you're trying to dodge my question."

Sherlock dramatically rolls his eyes. "I. Don't. Know. Her. Case closed."

"Not quite, Mr. Holmes. We're just getting started." Vernette glibly braids her mane, sitting in "Sherlock's" chair, and at no protest from him, John huffs in distress. The signal is lost on her, though.

A smile creeps into the corners of her mouth as she surveys Sherlock's petulant distance from John and the latter's sulky determination to wolf his toast.

"I heard violin. It was gorgeous. You must practice a lot to achieve those results."

"Practicing is nothing if you're a born proficient," The dark-haired man counters. "Talent is inborn, not something earned in time."

"Ah, you're mistaken. I've caught him, Dr. Watson," and with a lingering giggle directed at him, retains her sunny face while intoning, "Talent and skill are two different subjects. Talent is what you refer to, but skill is what I commented on. Even Beethoven would've sucked if he hardly practiced, despite all of his promise. You have both combined, along with technique."

Sherlock impassively picks up another tune. "I assume you play?"

She shakes her head. "God, no. I play piano. Keys, not chords. I dabbled in violin, but it's so hard to sing with, and I like to play and sing at the same time."

Abruptly, he shifts into the familiar melody of "You Are My Sunshine".

"Sing," he commands.

John settles back, enveloped in shock. She begins, and her voice, while surprisingly deep, is honeyed and unforced. Her throaty notes add a touch of tragedy to the song not normally found, and John feels ridiculous fighting the urge to shed a tear. _Am I a man or not?_ He sniffles.

Clearing his throat too loudly to be missed, he asks, "Shouldn't we get on this case?"

Sherlock jumps up. "Already did. I'll be checking in on the gardening supply stores, see if there's any information there. John, I'll text you when I find something.

"That's it?"

"Yes," and with a studied motion his famous scarf flutters over his famous coat, and he sprints down the Baker Street stairs.

"Wait," Vernette calls. She races after him. John doesn't have to strain to hear the argument below.

"I want to go with you."

"No, I like to work alone. Stay here. Mrs. Hudson will look after you."

"I'm not a child that needs to be looked after!"

"You're acting like one now."

More measured tones proceed.

"Mr. Holmes, you cannot expect me to just sit around while I wait for you to chase an empty lead."

John winces at the clipped ice in his next words. "When I said I'd take your case, I didn't expect a child grasping my coattails in search of an adventure. You are a client, not my co-detective, and when I give an order I expect to be obeyed. Stay here, or I drop your case."

Hastily turning to his toast, John only hears the ragged breaths of the teenager. A swallowed gasp is heard before the careful closing of a door, and then nothing. _I would cry too, if I were her. _John ruminates on going to her but immediately rejects the idea. A ding emits from his phone.

_Look up my files on Moriarty's syndicate. You know where they are. Sebastian, page 357 –SH_

The infamous files! John re-reads the text, not believing his eyes at first. Moments later, regarding the hefty binder as if it's the Ark of the Covenant, he scrambles through the pages. 357.

_I'm there. –JW_

_Type everything relevant you see on that page. –SH_

_Sebastian Moran, accomplice of Moriarty. Expert assassin. This is the Sebastian Vernette was talking about? –JW_

_Yes. -SH_

John leans back and massages his face with his calloused fingers. _I wonder what other surprises I should expect today. With my luck a bloody pig is going to fly by this window._

* * *

Sherlock's eyes widen, the blue spheres darkening in despair. He looks around, but the familiar walls of St. Bart's morgue hold no answers. Of course, he had suspected that Vernette was his daughter. He just hoped it wasn't true. But the DNA results he collected tell no lies.

What perverse twist of fate brought them together? He scowls. His life, the predictable current of unpredictability, satisfies his mental desires and, yes, even his emotional needs. This new factor, Vernette, is something new, but completely repulsive. Ever since last night, Sherlock identifies an awakening of new sentiment inside of him…is it regret? But how could he regret missing the first 15 years of his child's life when he never wanted one in the first place?

"Regret is the most useless emotion of them all," he whispers, twiddling with the gauges on the microscope.

He looks up to see Molly bustle in, clumsy as always, breathless as whenever she spies Sherlock giving her his accustomed perturbed gaze.

"Oh, hello," she chirps, attempting to blow a stray lock of hair from her face. "I didn't expect you today."

"Well, when do I ever come when you expect me?"

She grins. "You're right."

"Besides, I didn't expect to see you either. Well, yes, I must admit I did expect it, but it is unaccountable why you insist on withering away your weekends here. You're the head of the department now. No more grunge work for you."

"I love it," she states simply.

He observes her sorting out skin samples, washing tools, a plethora of mundane activities when he finally decides to say, "I need your advice."

"Wow. This is, what, the second time you've asked me advice in more than a decade."

He chooses to ignore her studied sarcasm.

"What if a man found out he had a child but didn't take up any responsibility as a parent? What do you think of him?"

She looks down. "I think he's a dick."

"Why?"

"Because! Because every child needs someone to look after him, and even if the present adult isn't the parent, he should take up that responsibility. The evil is he _is _the parent. He has a duty to it even stronger than that of a random adult. And once he knew it was his child, he should have loved it…"

"Why would he love her? He just discovered her! Love isn't a switch you can turn on and off,"

She blinks at his vehement parry. "And you would know."

"Well you can't blame him."

"Yes you can. And I do. I would hate that man, even more than his son or daughter would when he or she found out. You know Sherlock, secrets like that can't be kept hidden for very long." She pauses, shaking her head in confusion. "You are you asking me this? Why do you care anyway?"

"Nothing. Has to do with a case."

"Okay, yeah. I've known you for too long to believe that." At a warning glare, she hastily changes tactics. "Fine. You don't have to tell me. You never do anyways."

"Is that bitterness I hear?"

She sheepishly nudges him. "It's true."

He smiles fondly at her. Their relationship underwent a metamorphosis from apprehension on her side and boredom on his. Awakening to her admirable qualities, he tolerated her excessive…Molly-ness, and eventually grew to regard it as almost cute. He made it clear there were no romantic intentions on his side. He observed her long-cherished hopes wilt, and was thankful for their strengthened friendship as a result. _She's almost like what a puppy is to normal people, _he muses._ You just can't help loving it._

"Anyway," she bites her lips, tinted with his recommended lipstick shade, and flicks the long ponytail over her shoulder. "You can trust me, whatever it is. I've never been outspoken with your case information."

"I do trust you, Molly."

"Good."

It is the work of a minute to find the address to Sebastian's living quarters. He doesn't even pretend to hack into the appropriate computers to find the gardener's information. He already knows everything. Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in Britain. That is outdated information: currently, the most dangerous man in Britain. _And he had my daughter; _the thought makes him grit his teeth.

* * *

Irene never had much patience. Now is no exception. The miniscule scenery and fleecy clouds drifting by the window doesn't ease her thoughts. In wonder she finds her feet pushing against the back of the chair in front of her, she's so eager to get to London.

_Stop it. _Composing herself, she lightly taps her elusive fingers against the arm rests, easing into a familiar strain as her eyes flutter closed. The music shouts in her head, ruthlessly stirring up the internal pain with its turbulent melody, clambering into deep, husky notes. Images, memories, sear across her eyes, loosing crushed tears. _Vernette. _

_Vernette as a baby, long lashes fanning across her cheeks, soft hand cradling her face. Vernette losing her first tooth, almost awakening as Vernette slips a dollar bill under the Tinkerbell pillow case. Her obsession with fairies, mistaking the fireflies at night for the obscure creatures, and her slow realization that fairies cannot exist. _I wanted to make you believe, sweetheart, but you knew too much, too soon…your fairy days didn't last long enough. _Vernette swinging in their sun-dappled garden, leaping into Irene's waiting arms. Vernette thrusting dandelions in Irene's face, giving a toothy smile—and Irene later sneezing uncontrollably while quietly disposing of them. Later memories, the young woman setting up experiments in her room late at night, bundling a towel under the door so that Irene wouldn't know she was up. Vernette and Irene, each with a bowl of chocolate chip ice cream, watching old romantic movies and making fun of the foolish lovers._

She is suddenly acquainted with the worst pain she's ever felt in her life.


	5. Turn Away

**Author's Note: This chapter took so long to write (I write as I post; this story is not already completed) in part because of the emotional interactions in the chapter, and also because I'm not entirely sure where to go from here. Since I'm still writing the story, if anyone has any suggestions just post it in the review or PM me. And thanks to those who reviewed! It is what keeps me writing.**

Chapter 5

Chill London wind teases Sherlock's gray-tinged curls as he flips up his collar, nuzzling his chin inside the haven. He doesn't know where's he's going. He has time to kill before he'll be expected at the flat, and quite frankly he's in no rush to get there. John's interrogation, while delayed, will clearly not be avoided, and Sherlock had long ago determined that his mind and emotions were in too much turmoil to combat the truth.

Molly's words singe a banner in his mind: _He should have loved it. _Love at first sight is a concept Sherlock has always scoffed. _It takes time to learn to care for someone, especially in my case, and Vernette's paternity should be no influence on how I feel. It doesn't make sense! _Yet his mind wanders to Irene, of their intimate time together, lisped words trembling upon his lips, the moistness in his eyes as he cupped her cheek. He thought he loved her. He might have. He grimaces in remembrance of the forlorn time after their separation.

_"Sherlock, it just won't work," Irene shouts, tears dribbling in her sharp eyes. "What do you want me to do? Go to London? Solve crime with you? I can't go back and you damn well know it—"_

_"What else is there for you?" He bellows with rage, fists clenched. "What are you going to do, get a nine to five, some office job? That's not a life! Not for us!"_

_Her icy glare cuts him. "There is no 'us'."_

_His nostrils flare. "So you choose to live your life without me."_

_Her hysterical laugh shocks him, sends him tumbling backward. He looks with fear onto her beautiful face, tendrils of brown hair floating about her sweat-stained forehead, eyes maniacally gleaming with the pain she could not suppress. _

_"You would never give up John and Baker Street. Not for me. You don't love me enough," she leans into him, placing claws on his shoulders, his pulse roaring in his ears, "and you never will." She shoves him away._

_He stalks toward the door, chafing the handle. Breathing deeply, he turns to the woman, _The Woman_, tears unable to release the clotted agony building inside. _

_"If I have not loved you as I ought, I am sorry, for I have loved you the only way I know how. If I leave now, it is for good. I will not seek you out. Make your decision."_

_She sits, lowering her body without the accustomed grace. Her head is turned, the coif unraveling to reveal her rich russet hair. "Go."_

_He gasps, coming undone. Finally he chokes out, "I had a dream. Now it will never come true."_

He had never felt so alone. Did he regret his choice? No, even now he doesn't. He regrets hers. Regrets that their love, if that is indeed what it was, could not be explored, could not reach the potential so obviously untapped; it withered in bouts, in the hazy afternoons when she was not there, in the blurred features of a brown-haired woman in a coffee shop, in John leaving for a date and Sherlock having none. Sherlock can no longer detect the querulous hope he clung to. It isn't that he no longer loves her, because he does. He simply cannot summon the emotion seething in the secret room of his mind palace, hidden away in the deepest recesses. It is too painful to bear, so he does not bear it.

Vernette's presence distresses him more than he imagined possible. Her arched brows like birds wings, her feline poise. Her great laugh from deep in her throat, unabashedly rising up. It is a thick, enticing noise: it is Irene's. She is Irene. Her reincarnation, only much more perfect because she is his. It's not himself in her that he treasures; no, it is his entitlement to her, and he wonders jubilantly at realizing he never has to give her up, never has to say goodbye…

…He stops dead. He lets out a moan. She will never be his, will never seek the comfort of his presence. If she ever knew of the link between them, moments as precious as last night's would never recur. She'd despise him. _No, no, it's not true. I have to believe it's not true. Because…because I love her. My daughter._

He barely registers the plodding drops of rain spattering onto his coat. He bows his head, and before his eyes is nothing but an ebony screen, and the hand on his shoulder feels light in comparison of the lovely turmoil in his heart.

* * *

John lightly opens Sherlock's bedroom door, peeking behind at Vernette's erect back.

"Come in," she says in a wasted voice.

He is not surprised at the state his room is in. Of course the girl rummaged through the detective's things, could he expect anything less? _Truly a mini-Sherlock, no concept of privacy. _She shifts to face him. Her eyes are pensive and blurred, her mouth turned down.

"You must thing I'm such a child."

He coughs, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Well you are. Not much to be expected there, and besides, we all need a good tantrum once in a while. Clears your head."

She smiles ruefully. "I'm sure you've had one recently."

"Oh yeah," he settles next to her. "There's only so much of Sherlock's decapitated heads one can handle. Especially when the heads belong to dogs."

She squeaks.

"Yeah, dogs. I always had a soft spot for them. I would get one if I had a more settled lifestyle."

"I have a dog. His name is Xerxes. He's an English bulldog."

He gasps. "I love bulldogs!"

"How could you not? They have such an understated elegance. But I feel bad for all the genetic stuff we've done to them. We've decapitated them, basically, as sure as if we were Sherlock Holmes himself," with a sad grin, "I hate how people just have no regard for life, and just slaughter it without a care in the world."

"It's true," John reminisces. "I've met a lot of people like that."

A long, warm silence prevails. Finally she whispers, "I feel bad about what Sherlock said."

"He was quite rude…"

"No, it's not that," Vernette puts out a hand as if trying to grasp a way to explain. "It's that he's right. I do want adventure. As awful as all this is, it's interesting. Stimulating. For me, fun. And I feel really bad. But nothing's ever happened to me before. I've never experienced anything."

John places his hand over hers. "That's understandable. But I think your mother wouldn't appreciate your opinion."

"Yeah, Mom would be like 'Vernette Renee Adler, do you know what I've been through?' It would be traumatizing."

John manages to lift his jaw back into its proper position. "Did you say Adler? That's your surname?"

"Yeah. What, is it familiar?"

He sags on the bed. "I knew someone once with that name."

* * *

Irene peers at Sherlock's retreating back. She couldn't help but caress his drooping shoulders, lend a warm touch to whatever turmoil he was going through. Did he know the secret? Probably. It wouldn't take a genius to figure it out, and Irene knows he would've guessed right away.

Her already piqued irritation at herself flares when she, in wonder, finds her hand shaky from the contact. She's aware of her body yearning for more, churning inside with the sudden re- introduction of Sherlock's firm shoulders, his scent, his presence. _No. I have one task to accomplish and that is this: recover Vernette. _She places her stray emotions firmly in their proper place. Both are about fifteen minutes from Baker Street. She will enter, take Vernette, and leave a hasty note before Sherlock's arrival. She eyes his wallet, a feisty red smirk blossoming, and pockets it. He'll have to walk.

The cab ride is spent finding composure to see Vernette again. All she wants to do is take her up in her arms, press the beloved cheek against her face, and breathe her in. Irene knows that after this experience, she will never get enough of her daughter. Irene picks through the possible sentences as she picks at her coat, rifling through what she could say and what she should. _There's only one phrase that really matters now, _she knows. _I never knew how much I loved her until I lost her._

It is agony to clip up the staircase to the boys' living area slowly. It is torture to force her body to obey her mind. Her thoughts seem to reach out, signaling to Vernette that her mother is here.

"Vernette?" Irene calls brokenly. "Sweetheart," but the last word is stopped by the tumultuous appearance of a bounding child. Vernette smashes into her, hands twisting in her mother's coif, mutual tears mingling in the exalted faces. Vernette pulls back and swallows a sob, holding her mother's face between her palms.

"Mom! You're here! How did you know—"

"It doesn't matter, Verne. Not now. Just let me look at you."

Vernette looks grown up. Irene never noticed the woman beginning to take shape in the little girl until her desire for the child increased. Her face falls as she looks; her daughter is beautiful, but foreign. She's become a different person in the days away, with an aged face and a lurking fear in her eyes. She looks haunted, not the unabashed, sparkling creature Irene knows. Irene sends silent curses to the man that did this.

"John! I've been pick—" Irene looks up, recognizing Dr. Watson's weathered face observing the scene. Then Sherlock.

"Irene," he breathes. The two lock eyes, an eternity in the gaze, mutual suffering and anger funneling through the cord between them. Sherlock's face goes blank. He swivels toward Vernette, missing Irene's apologetic eyes.

"You know my mom?"

Irene is stunned. _He didn't tell her? _Sherlock looks aghast and bewildered, while John is visibly bracing himself.

Vernette stands up and surveys the three. "What have you been keeping from me?"


	6. Echo

**Author's Note: I changed the ending of the last chapter because I changed how I wanted my story to go. I think it's more in character for Irene to do what she did. **

**Author's Note: I know it's short! I've had a bad case of Writer's Block. I promise the action's about to begin; just hang in there.**

Chapter 6

Vernette's elation at reuniting with her mother is dwindling to cold fear. A heavy stone seems to burrow aloofly in her stomach, aching, pushing, churning.

"The three of us worked together for a short period of time." Sherlock's voice is level. "Let's just say we didn't get along very well. Your mother is what some may term "naughty". I personally found her insufferable."

Irene's nostrils flare, her eyes sharp. Vernette knows that glare: it is the signal of the impending storm. John is flinching into the background. _I don't blame him, _Vernette reasons. _I wouldn't want to be caught in the cross-fire. _

"Okay then. That's…interesting. How about we discuss this more over a cup of tea?"

"Nice try, young lady." Hardness seems to encase Irene, rendering her utterly unbendable. "We're leaving. We have to catch the 4:00 flight."

Vernette purses her lips. She doesn't say anything; how could she? What is there to say? Every fiber in her being protests against the idea, but it is inevitable. Vernette expected nothing less.

Sherlock stiffly beckons to Irene. "May we converse? In private." It is not so much an entreaty as a command. Irene bristles, but follows him into his bedroom. She surveys it with a caustic snicker.

"What an auspicious place to talk."

"Don't even _start, _woman." He curls his lip, disgusted. "I don't intend to explore that part of our relationship ever again."

Irene stares at him, dumbfounded. She barks in incredulity. "You think I want to sleep with you? After everything? You really are just as full of yourself now as you were then."

He is unabashed. "No, but I know how manipulative you can be. You may not want me, but you'll use me to achieve a greater end. I'm very familiar with that side of you."

"You have no right to judge me."

He rests a lean hand on the footboard. Irene's eyes follow its erratic twitching, and she knows that beneath his unruffled exterior lies vibrant, violent emotion. What it is, she cannot tell yet.

"Don't I? We can argue the point for eternity and not reach a satisfactory conclusion for both parties, but never mind. What I want to know is simple: why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"

A heavy _something _lies between them, an irreparable and impenetrable chasm. Irene cannot breach it. She cannot say and do the things her heart yearns to; she cannot cradle Sherlock's head in her lap, apologize for what she's done, make him see that it was all a foolish mistake. So she whispers instead:

"I thought you'd be angry. I thought you'd reject us."

His response cuts through the stagnant air. "You could've done what normal people do and told me the truth. Then you would've known."

"But it would have broken my heart." Her tears lace entwining fingers down her neck. "I loved you so, Sherlock. I don't think you knew how much. You're right: I know you think I'm a coward. I guess I am. I was then, I was too afraid to take a chance and be sensible. The day I ended it was 2 weeks after the positive results. I've regretted my decision so many times over the past fifteen years, and I know that regret can't give you what you lost, but I want you to know that I _do _care and I_ am _sorry. I've tried to give her the best life, give her pieces of you."

_What? _Sherlock reels from the unexpected soliloquy. He didn't know what he expected, but what is before him is clearly not that. Here is a broken mess, a woman haunted by her mistakes, trying to fix something that can't be fixed. She knows it too, and that's why she sobs. Sherlock's intuition tells him he's not being played. Where is the pillar of strength? Where is the mocking, dauntless Irene Adler? And what has she been replaced with?

His head screams the injustices, the pain this woman has caused him, but his heart refuses to listen. He sits beside her and awkwardly drapes an arm around her shoulder. He massages it deftly, muttering conciliatory words he never thought he'd say.

"It's okay, Irene. It's okay. I realize that now. Maybe I wouldn't have accepted you back then; maybe I wouldn't have wanted Vernette. I'm a better man than I used to be. She's lovely and perfect and…God, you have no idea. She's everything I could have ever wanted, minus that tongue of hers. She clearly got that from you."

Irene laughs. She drags her sleeve across her eyes. Sherlock's suddenly very aware of the proximity of the love of his life, but he won't allow himself to go there. Irene's striking eyes reach his; her lips curve slightly into one of those smiles that are really frowns. He traces the curve of her cheek. Burrowing her head in his chest, she clings to him for what she knows will be the last time.

* * *

Vernette surveys the eclectic trio with no slight amount of nervous energy. Even with her coat on (conveniently brought by Irene, of course) and in the process of hailing a taxi, Vernette hopes Sherlock, John, or both will manufacture a miracle so she can stay.

But neither seems inclined to obey her mental pleads. John gives her his contact information, envelops her in a bear hug, and wishes her well. Sherlock avoids her stare. He doesn't even say goodbye. It's as if he's reverted back to his old, stiff self.

Irene is in an obvious hurry, her hands perpetually at Vernette's back, pushing her forward. "We have to make the flight," she repeatedly insists, and Sherlock shoos them along with similar gusto. Vernette can barely squeak out "Bye!" before the taxi whirls away with a flurry of sludge.

Irene chafes her daughter's hand, not appearing to ever intend to release it.

"Vernette, Sherlock has a…missive for you. Here," Irene, perturbed, gives Vernette the letter.

The crackle of paper emits the scent of Baker Street: coffee, Windex, John's cologne. Vernette fingers the writing.

_Dear Vernette,_

_ I don't think I'll see you in a long time. At least, I hope I don't if only for fear of similar circumstances bringing us together. Trouble follows your mom; I think you've inherit that unlucky trait. I don't think I've grown accustomed of you enough to actually miss you, but don't think you won't come across my mind one in a while. I don't think I could ever really forget a girl like you._

_ Please don't look for trouble!_

_ -SH_

"This is sweet, for him," she murmurs. Vernette looks up, confused by the silence, staring blankly at the empty space next to her. She seizes the empty seat, prodding it with clawed fingers. Nothing's there. _Mom?_ The cab is a couple of miles away from the airport.

"Hey, where's the woman who was sitting next to me?" She grips the back of the driver's headrest.

He casts a slatternly look over the back seat. "She' not 'ere? She said to 'ake you to the airpor' af'er she go' off. I guess she go' off."

"While the cab was moving!?"

"I dunno. I'm s'ill gonna take you to the airpor', as per dir_ec_tions."

"Damn the airport! Bring me back!"

He waves a fat wad of cash seductively over his shoulder. "No can do, Ma'am."

Frenzied, she grabs the fistful and flings a hefty amount out the window. He moans at the fluttering bills disappearing in the breeze.

"Out goes another twenty—oops! You lose it all if you don't go back the way you came."

The screeching of the tires as they make a sharp turn matches the screeching in her head. As the familiar roads leading to Baker Street flash by, she's hit by déjà vu. _Here we go again._


	7. Rockerbye

Chapter 7

The last thing John expected to see was Vernette bursting into Baker Street again, but upon reflection he has to admit that with the Holmes clan nothing goes as expected.

The door pops open, revealing the girl. Her eyes are wild. Her hair is still in disarray from galloping up the steps, and she can barely speak for more than a few moments.

John turns to Sherlock, stunned. The dark haired man lowers himself from his perch on the windowsill. His eyes tighten, and with unusual patience he waits for Vernette's raggedy breathing to level.

Finally she gasps, "Mom's gone. She told the cabbie to drop me off at the airport and disappeared. Just disappeared! We never even made a stop! You have to do something."

"Of course," Sherlock states, utterly deadpan. "Do you think Sebastian didn't warn her? Didn't tell her to stay away? And do you honestly think she'd allow that?"

He turns to John. Flashes of disbelief ripple across his worn face. "Bloody hell. She wouldn't."

"She did."

Vernette shakes her head. "I don't understand."

Sherlock rapidly strides, hands clenched behind his back, muttering incoherently while barking explanatory phrases. "Sebastian, he knows your mother is connected with the man he wants so eagerly to destroy. She substituted you for herself. He'll come; yes, he'll _rescue _her, and then he'll probably by all accounts be killed."

"I won't let that happen. After all you've done for me I can't let you die."

Both men gape at her. She clicks her tongue in annoyance.

"Of course you're the man! You're my—er, dad. You've all been so busy trying to protect me from that that you never noticed I already knew. _This _is why he let me escape: so I'd come to you. It's easy enough to deduce."

She drills impatient eyes into Sherlock. "Are we going to do something or just go?"

John rises. "There is no 'we'. There is Sherlock and I."

Vernette growls. "I can shoot, that's one skill. I'm smart, that's another. I've met him, which is more than both of you can say, and it's easier to work out a strategy with three participants rather than two. Plus you know I'm just going to run away and join you if you leave me behind."

Sherlock appraises her. John resembles a tomato addressing his partner. "You're not seriously considering this! She's a child! We can leave her with Mrs. Hudson,"

"And risk the poor woman getting her head bashed in? I think not. Get Vernette a gun. I'll text Lestrade, and she can order a taxi. We're going to Scotland Yard."

John huffs off, leaving father and daughter awkwardly not looking at each other. Vernette whispers,

"Thank you. I guess we can sort all this out later."

He steps toward her. "Just don't purposely put yourself in any danger," he snarls. She grins, bounding down the stairs with new purpose.

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Moran," Irene smooth voice reverberates in the damp chamber. She appraises the place dramatically, running a finger down the slick wall. "Nice place you've got here."

He doesn't appear. Irene strains her eyes for any sign, but there's none. A pause ensues. "Aren't we going to talk? Come out, come out wherever you are."

"I can talk just as well where I am."

She smiles warmly. "Ah. I see." Inwardly, she knows this won't end well for her. In a perfect universe, Vernette would be on her flight home, but Irene knows her better than that. Surely Sherlock's pieced together a fragmented version of what's going on. Of course he has. He simply has no grasp of their deal.

"You screwed Moriarty," his voice reaches out, reproachful, almost petulant.

She fakes a snicker, cold sweat snaking down her hairline. "What particular screwing are you referring to?"

Muffled clamors scatter across the walls. Irene looks up, trying to spot Moran. Nothing.

"You failed him all those years ago. He gave you a chance to be great, and what did you do? Fall for that damned detective. The word on the street is he beat you with your phone password. Pathetic."

She clenches her jaw, the old defeat still digging into her pride. Her tone takes on a steely edge. "I really am attempting to be civil, and given everything you've done you should try not to make me angry."

"Why? What are you going to do?" _What _am_ I going to do? _

Irene desperately tries to make conversation, carefully squelching the urge to look above for Moran. She knows she can only delay the inevitable, something she's not even sure she desires, but still she tries. Babbling, spiraling into more desperate territory. There was once a time when she would have faced this with dignity. That's before she had something to live for. Two things- a life waxing and a life just beginning. _I love them both so much, _she realizes. Could she ever deny that she loved Sherlock? No, but the thought had never brought her much peace or satisfaction. Now she feels warmed being one of the lucky few to permeate his impenetrable heart. _I did that, _she marvels._ I am loved by him. Funny that only now do I see how valuable a gift I was given. And he loves his daughter. What more do I have to worry about now? What else is there?_ She hears Moran shifting, now that her chatter has subsided and the time feels right.

"I have one thing to request of you. Just one. I know you don't have to give it to me, but I need to believe that you will. Don't let her see it."

She smiles slowly…tears stinging her eyes…heart throbbing with loud _da-dump_s…she feels something rip through her chest…the pain slowly invades her body…she's eye level with the gravel…dark blood swirls on the speckled surface…

…Her breathing slows. She closes her eyes, evoking images of the only two people she's ever loved. _Sherlock at Karachi, telling her to run. Vernette saying "Mommy!" for the first time. Sherlock and Vernette genially conversing, as if their world would always be such as it was. Sherlock kissing her, tidal waves of emotion rendering her limp in his arms. Vernette's big brown eyes. Sherlock's skin. Vernette's smile. Vernette—_

But that thought would never reach completion; the end has come.

* * *

Vernette jiggles her leg, impatient. Lestrade continues acting thick even though he can't be or Sherlock wouldn't be his friend. But if she sees his eyes pop one more time, she swears she'll—

Vernette reminds herself to behave, taking some calming breaths before opening her eyes again. _This has to be hard to digest. It's not like she'll come to any harm before we get there. _

"So wait, explain to me again…?"

"Sebastian Moran was Moriarty's accomplice. And yes, Irene's alive. She never died.

"Sounds like somebody else I know," Lestrade grumbles.

"Just send a team to his house. Report back to me anything you find, no matter how insignificant. I want to know the bloody brand of toothpaste he uses. And please, don't send Anderson. This is too paramount to rely on lesser intelligence."

Sherlock spins. Vernette and John trail after him.

"You really don't think they're there?"

"No. Sebastian wants a chase. He won't get it if we know where he is."

They continue walking for what seems like miles. Finally Sherlock breaks his silence. "You may want to take a few breaths of clean air. We have some dirty people to inquire of."

John groans. Vernette wonders what he's talking about.

* * *

Vernette gingerly sucks in putrid air through her mouth while Sherlock converses with the homeless man. _Being polite has never been so hard, _she muses. John drums his fingers against his thigh, impatient. His brow is also rutted with worry. The two don't even bother to catch snippets of the conversation; they've heard it often enough. With legs numb, pulsing feet, and chapped noses, they both sally at the edge of the alley, Vernette puzzling out graffiti messages and John lost in thought.

Sherlock strolls toward them, a grin lingering on the corners of his smug mouth. _We got him. _John and Vernette trail him, no words needed to relate to each other the mutual feeling of leaden purpose. Vernette swallows her dread. _Mom needs me. Nothing's going to happen to me. Sherlock and John are too skilled to allow it. _Even though sound logic usually relieves her, Vernette still can't shake her lingering fear.

Their pace quickens at each new turn and their fists clench harder every yard. Vernette knows the sacrifice these men are making simply by being prepared to make one, and she blinks back tears. No one ever really seemed to love her mother. Sure, she had "friends". Everyone does. But none of the numerous guests could fake sincere enjoyment in Irene's company, and it made Vernette sad for her. Soon people stopped coming altogether, and Irene was alone if she wasn't out "working". But these two men, both surly, baffling creatures care enough about Irene or Vernette or both to help. _Someday I'm going to show them how much this means to me._

They enter a remote place haunting the outskirts of London, a dusty, ghoulish place. It resembles a large bowl, with rounded leaden walls tapering into a smooth floor. Vernette glances above, scrutinizing the shadows for Sebastian, when a hand clenches her jaw and jerks her to the side. Nestled into John's chest, she struggles to break free. She catches a sliver of Sherlock sink to his feet in front of an inscrutable heap, a dark stain. She elbows John in the collarbone. Ignoring his yells she dives headlong into the bowl, skidding to a stop. Her brain registers features, lidded eyes, closed mouth, dark hair snaking patterns in the bloodied canvas.

"Mom?"

Her eyes see but her mind halts. Surely she isn't in this moment, it's all a mistake. Vernette stands aloofly behind Sherlock, wavering. Her knees wobble but still she stands.

John busies himself by Irene's corpse. Sherlock is as still as stone, while Vernette slowly falls onto his shoulder. She doesn't cry. She just sits.

"She's been—gone—not very long. If we hurry we can catch him. He has to still be in the area."

The two stay frozen.

John's face is softened with compassion, but his eyes glare. He licks his lips, eyes flitting toward the body, then urgently lays a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"We have to keep moving."

Mechanically he rises, holding a weak Vernette close to his side. "Yes, yes we should. Keep moving," he queries, a mystified voice seeming to drift from his stiff lips. His eyes cloud in confusion, matching Vernette's. Helplessly he looks to John.

John gestures, but Sherlock doesn't let Vernette go. Suddenly he flips her into his arms, sluggishly carrying her toward the entrance of the cavern. John stays still.

Sherlock shrugs off his coat and it falls with a puff of grit. He lays Vernette's still body on top of it, cupping her cold cheek. Tears sprout from her eyes then and she cries; a keening wail that sends shivers up John's spine. Sherlock returns.

"Listen John, take her to Mrs. Hudson. She needs to go home. I'll look for Moran." John hesitates.

"Can you do this? You look weak."

"I am. The unshakable has been shaken. But I need to…I need to find him. Report to Lestrade. He needs to know about this."

John offers a final nod, gives Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze and hunches toward Vernette, visibly bracing himself for the tide of grief he's to encounter.

Sherlock turns away only when John's back is in the distance, Vernette's limp arms draped around the older man's neck. Sherlock's eyes pierce the scuffing around the rim, then he scales the roughened walls. _A crumbled factory of some sort. _A trail of dusty footprints tantalize him. The sick smell of blood still lingering in his nostrils, Sherlock fingers the gun at his side, resolving to use measures formerly deemed heinous to take down Moran.


End file.
